


Rapunzel

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Murder Mystery, Mystery, fairy tale, pretty much discontinued
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-25
Updated: 2015-06-26
Packaged: 2018-03-19 12:31:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3610203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It started as a mundane afternoon. Little did they know that the following month was going to be the most thrilling and gruesome adventure they would have for quite some time. As old enemies- and new ones- arise, Sherlock will have to strain to the best of his ability to discover the dark truths behind a series of brilliantly plotted fairy tale themed murders.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Second Prolouge

A loud thud resonates throughout a cottage in the middle of a bare field. James, or Jim, Moriarty is having a fit of rage as he tries to solve the riddle of how Sherlock always manages to defeat him. 

_**"HOW!?"**_ He screams, chucking a vase at the wall, shattering the glassware on the floor beneath it. He takes several breathes to quiet the seething anger inside him.

Now calm, he sits in a nearby, intact, lounge chair, and observes the destruction he's caused.

The cloth coated chair next to him has been slit down the back and stuffing is spilling out. The carpet where the glass had shattered is now soaked with water, with a single rose in the midst of the shards. A small end table between the two seats has been overturned, it's contents, a book and a few papers, are scattered around it. One of the walls' plaster has been dented in and cracked. 

He starts mulling over the question that's been plaguing his mind for the past week, and that caused his paroxysm.

"How does Sherlock always win? What does he have that I don't? We have equal intelligence... I always make sure the scenarios are tipped in my favour..." 

His eyes spark with realisation as he begins to understand.

"Watson..." he murmurs. "He has that blogger and I have no one." 

_'But what is John to dear old Sherlock?'_ He muses.

"An apprentice. That's what I need."

And with that statement Moriarty leaves the little shack to find himself a killer in training.


	2. First Prolouge

In a dark room, sits a masculine figure. He has his hands together, finger to finger, perched directly beneath his chin.

Another shape walks into the room. This one is shorter than the first, and it fumbles around, trying to find a way to light the room. He opens up the dust covered crimson curtains. The taller figure squints his olive eyes into small slits at the newly lit room as the dust poofs off the drapes.

After the dust settles, he can see the details of the living quarters in his flat more clearly.

As the shorter sits down in his green armchair next to the fireplace, the taller notices the human skull that he keeps on the mantle, next to his box of cigarettes. In front of him is the kitchen, where the table is scattered with beakers, vials, and other scientific equipment.

To his left, is the coffee table and couch where many a clients have sat, as they spilled their problems to him, hoping he would help. Above the sofa is a yellow smiley face scattered with bullet holes he had placed there one day when he was bored.

"Sherlock," starts the blond, his blue, almost brown eyes, staring at the man sitting across from him," _Why_ were you sitting in the dark?"

Sherlock simply dismisses the question with a wave of his hand, and says,"Unimportant, John. Now, would you be so kind as to read me your notes from the current case?"

"Fine. But tell me- what does the world's greatest consulting detective need a refresher for?"

"I simply need to know if you've noticed anything I might have ignored."

"So you need my help." Says John, raising an eyebrow to show his disbelief.

"Just read the notes."

"Right. Well then."

And as he begins to do just that, Sherlock's eyes close, fingers entwined once more, as he takes in what John has to say.


	3. Chapter I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so I feel really bad about not giving y'all anything new for so long, but I'm just never motivated. Sorry. But you got yourself into this when you read past the disclaimer. Anyway, here's what I've written so far. AND I'll probably come back and edit this so it's better later.

If you were to enter the flat at 221B Baker Street, you might come across a strange sight, such as Sherlock Holmes prodding with strange instruments at a human foot- While John Watson acts as though this behaviour is perfectly normal, as he types up the recent escapades he and Sherlock had gone through. But this was exactly what was happening.

~~~~

Sherlock's phone buzzes, and he calls out,"John, see what Lestrade wants."

John walks over to the phone, wondering how Sherlock could possibly know that Lestrade was messaging him, and reads the text aloud.

_"I'd like your professional opinion on a strange case that's happened in a forest a few miles outside town."_

Sherlock slips out of the lab coat he had on and pulls on the coat he tends to wear, whilst saying,"Tell him we'll be right over."

~~~~

Later, at the densely wooded scene, Sherlock stands observing the corpse. A young blonde, not more than twenty-five, lay in the centre of a thorn patch, her eyes having been gouged out by the surrounding thorns. Her right hand was tightly, almost unnaturally, clutching something. Sherlock reaches down and forces her palm open, revealing a small shred of paper, with the number thirteen scrawled on it, in spidery hand writing.

He plucks it out and examines it for a second, before pocketing it. Anderson, having noticed this, walks up to Sherlock and says,

"Sherlock, you can't just take evidence whenever you want. If we at the P.D. let that happen then we'd turn into a crazy house!" 

"Anderson, what have I told you about speaking aloud? You're just going to embarrass yourself, and as proof, you just did. You incorrectly made an analogy between the police department and a crazy house, when a better choice of words would be a free-for-all, and in it's correct usage, is a disorganised situation in which everyone takes part in."

Anderson glares at Sherlock, but walks away without saying anything else.

John walks up to Sherlock, and watches as Anderson huffs off.

"What was that about?"

"Anderson was being a complete numbskull... as usual. What do you think of this note, John?" The detective says, as he sets the paper into John's outstretched palm.

John looks at the note, and hands it back to Sherlock, as he says,

"Well, um, my guess would be that the person who wrote this thinks highly of themselves, based on the writing style."

Sherlock allows the corner of his lip to turn skyward.

"My, John, you are learning after all. And look here-" -he points to three- "-I can tell by the pressure that was put on the pen that a young man wrote this."

~~~~

Later, after Sherlock had finished examining the crime scene, (as there wasn't much else besides the note) he could be found picking over the note at St. Barts- not entirely unlike a vulture scavenging for leftovers.

Currently, he was peering at it through his microscope.

He scratches out some notes in Latin, (Much to John's annoyance when he tries to read them. In his mind Sherlock is writing out some gossip or other that he heard, simply to frustrate him.) before bagging the note and slipping out of his lab coat into his usual attire.

He wishes a goodbye to a surprised Molly, before heading out to be with his thoughts.


End file.
